


Four Times They Lied (and One Time They Didn't)

by kowaiyoukai



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Citizens of Gotham, F/M, M/M, Masochism, Pre-Canon, Psychological Drama, Sadism, why are there no implied pairing tags?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-26
Updated: 2008-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:35:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kowaiyoukai/pseuds/kowaiyoukai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at the lies they tell to get by, and the truth they have to hide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times They Lied (and One Time They Didn't)

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to write down some ideas I had about what happened in their respective pasts. I think there's ten trillion ways you could make up the Joker's past, and make it believable, so no guarantee I'll agree with this idea in a week. :P Also, I haven't seen Batman Begins in too long, so there might be some inconsistencies—just ignore them. And this is strictly Nolanverse, so I guarantee there's differences from the graphic novels. Oh, and if you think I can't count, it's four times each of them lied, so eight times, and one time neither of them lied. So that makes nine. SO THERE. XD

As he grew older, it got harder to remember his parents. There were plenty of pictures of them, and of course Alfred was ready with stories whenever asked, but by the time he was twelve Bruce realized that the only images left in his head were the ones sitting on tables throughout the manor. Somehow, in trying to hold on to his memories, the images that he had of them ended up slipping away.

Rachel asked him once, if he remembered. He had been nine at the time, and so ready to be so much older. They had been sitting on the grass outside, on a blanket that Bruce figured someone must have laid out for them. There were snacks and drinks around them, some on the blanket and some in a basket. Bruce was going through a bag of chips at a steady rate, and Rachel looked beautiful as she always did to him, even when she was soaking wet and her hair hung in ridiculous clumps around her face.

Today it was sunny, though, and the light shone in her hair and eyes, dazzling him. He crunched through the chips methodically, occasionally stopping to respond to something she had said. He wasn't paying attention the way he should have been, and when there was a long pause between her words, he looked up, wondering why she had stopped.

"Sorry, what?" Bruce asked, grabbing another chip and starting to decimate it.

"I… no, nothing," Rachel replied, shaking her head and waving a hand in the air. "It was stupid, forget I said anything, sorry."

Bruce cracked a smile and said, "Now you've got to tell me." When she started to protest again, he interrupted her with a laugh. "After a reply like that? Come on, I need to know."

Rachel ran a hand through her hair and then straightened her shoulders. "I just asked if you remembered your parents."

His smile fell slowly off his face, so slowly that Rachel didn't notice until it was gone. She was folding and unfolding a napkin, over and over again, carefully not looking at him except for hurried little glances that told her nothing at all.

"I mean, it's just that I was thinking about them the other day, and I realized I've been forgetting some things…" Rachel trailed off, unsure how to continue. "Not everything, of course, I still remember enough. Like that time we went to see that theatre troop perform, remember? And that one guy with the long coat accidentally ripped it, and he spent that whole song trying to hide the huge tear down his back?" She laughed then, light and rippling. "And remember we went to that park for the fourth of July, and you complained that there weren't enough fireworks, and then your dad got some guy who worked there and gave them all that money to go buy more?"

Throughout Rachel's little speech, Bruce grit his teeth and fought to stay quiet. She obviously didn't notice, and with every small anecdote, Bruce felt himself grow colder and colder. She continued for several minutes after that, caught up in her own memories, and Bruce was somehow able to smile when she finally looked up, beaming at him.

"Don't you remember that?" she asked, grinning.

He grabbed a few chips and started munching on them. Rachel rolled her eyes and made a face that spoke volumes about what she thought of his manners. He audibly swallowed and then nodded once, hard.

"Yeah," he said, loudly and with a shrug. "Of course I do."

When she began talking again, all Bruce could think about was the way she had painted his parents. So in love and so easy to love, as well. The clearest memory he had of his parents was of them lying on the ground with a man standing over them, and that was the one memory he had tried to forget.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

He had lived with the scars his whole life. They kept him on edge, ready to do battle at any moment. Not actual fighting, although it sometimes came down to that, but rather a complex series of situations in which the objective was getting the upper hand. These were constantly popping up in unexpected ways—someone staring at him for too long, a thoughtless off-hand comment, a gesture that seemed meant to be taken the wrong way. At first, it had been impossible to win, simply because he hadn't known the rules of the game. The day he figured it out, though, everything became much simpler.

He was eight when he figured things out. He was sitting in the park, alone, as always. There was never a good time to be home, and it was always stressful there, anyway. He was on edge all the time, nervous and wondering, never able to relax. The park calmed him—it was quiet and no one ever made any threatening movements there. Today he was on the swing, which creaked as he moved slowly on it, back and forth, dragging his feet on top of the sand as he swung. Without warning, the chain snapped, sending him crashing to the ground. He fell hard, landing awkwardly on his leg and side. It wasn't a long fall, so it only stung, and the only response he had was to just start laughing.

He laughed and laughed, laughed until he was breathless and then his chest heaved, mouth still moving in silent giggles. He opened his eyes, only then realizing that he had closed them, and found a little girl staring down at him.

"Are you okay?" she asked, wide eyed and staring at him.

He took a deep breath and started laughing again, giggling and snorting and then eventually just huffing a bit. The girl blinked at him, obviously unsure what she should do. Then she twirled around and raced over to the side of the park, where a man was standing. The girl tugged at his sleeve and the man followed her back to stare at him some more.

"He's all right, sweetie, see?" the man said, smiling at the girl. It was a completely foreign smile to the boy on the ground, one that he didn't understand or know how to react to. "He's just kidding around." The man grinned down at the boy, teeth seeming to gleam, white and overly bright. "You're a joker, aren't you?"

The boy blinked, slowly, and his mouth slowly turned upwards. "I'm _the_ Joker," he proclaimed, feeling a sudden surge of importance flooding through him. He scrambled to his feet and began dusting off his threadbare cotton pants.

"See?" the man said, turning to the little girl and patting her head. "Everything's fine. Why don't you go play by the slide, okay?"

The girl wandered off and the man and the boy were left standing there, looking at each other. The boy turned to leave, but the man grabbed his arm and looked at him seriously.

"I don't know what's going on," he said, speaking slowly. "And I know I can't do anything for you. But you've got the right idea." The man smiled a bit and let the boy's arm go. "They say laughter's the best medicine. If you can laugh about it, things aren't that bad. If you can laugh about it, things will get better, okay?" The man laid his hand on the boy's shoulder gently. "If you've got a positive outlook on life, that's the most important thing. Everything else falls into place if you're optimistic."

The boy stared at the man, realized the man could never understand him, and continued staring anyway.

"You are, aren't you?" the man said, grinning. "Optimistic, I mean."

The boy nodded. "Yeah," he said, figuring it was the quickest way to get the man to shut up and leave.

The man let go of his shoulder and nodded at him, then collected the girl and left. Later, the boy wouldn't remember any of their conversation. He would only remember the peace, the fall that shattered it, the laughter that followed, and taking on the name Joker—they only name he ever responded to from that day onwards.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

When Bruce was thirteen, he had his first kiss. Honestly, he didn't quite see what all of the hype was about. It was nice, sure, but there were no explosions in his mind, no dancing lights behind her face, no professions of love ready to spring from his lips. It was about as nice as being the first one with the latest gadget in their class. It was something new that he had been looking forward to, but once he actually tried it out he found out that the advertising had made it look a lot better than it actually was.

The girl was pretty enough, sure. She had blonde hair that curled up at the ends, full lips, and bright blue eyes. She was the most popular cheerleader, which was why he had picked her in the first place. Her name was Cindy, and she wasn't even as unintelligent as most people assumed she was.

He had set things up pretty well, too. They were sitting in one of his gardens, and he had paid attention to everything she had said, even when she had started complaining that Laura Callaghan was trying to usurp her position on the squad.

When she had finally shut up, he had kissed her, and she had responded just like he knew she was going to. But then she started making these weird noises, something in-between humming and moaning, and Bruce idly wondered if that was meant to be alluring. She began moving closer to him, and although he was interested, he just wasn't particularly interested at the current moment. At least, not in Cindy.

He broke the kiss off, smiling at her. She smiled back and then it was all right, then he could pretend that it had gone as planned.

"So," Cindy said, coyly. "I guess you _do_ like me."

"I guess so," Bruce replied.

As he got older, he realized that women were easy to get with. They all wanted the same thing—to feel important, special, loved. It was easy to give them that, even though it meant nothing to him. No one made any lasting impression, except for four people. His parents, who were dead; Alfred, who he regarded as a father and mentor; and Rachel, who meant too much to do anything with. So all of his romantic relationships meant nothing—there was no fire in them, no passion or desperation. Worse, he could never find anyone who understood him or understood what he was looking for. Everyone seemed to want to fit in, but all he wanted to do was stand out. No one understood that, and so he felt alone, even though he was surrounded by people who wanted to please him.

It stayed that way for years.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The first time the Joker realized he liked pain— _really_ liked it—was when he was in middle school. School had been horrible for him, and it got worse over the years. The scars were just the beginning of it. People realized he didn't fit in, but more than that, they realized that he was dangerous. He was an outcast, a leper—even mocking him was forbidden in this complete separation they deemed was necessary. Teachers didn't want to get too close to him, and no one was willing to take a chance on him. In fact, the one and only time that ever-present barrier had been broken was when he had been in the seventh grade.

Gary Stulman was an idiot. He faked a lot of it, but there were also true moments of stupidity mixed in there. Someone had dared him to pick a fight with the leper, and he had accepted, and so that day at lunch Gary had walked over to the Joker's small corner of the cafeteria and overturned his tray. It had been so wholly unexpected that all he could do for a moment was blink, slowly, and then he looked up and asked, "Are you… going to pay for tha-tuh?" He smacked his lips together and frowned. "Because I _real_ ly was planning on… _eat_ ing it, aaand—"

Then Gary punched him, right on the jaw, and he fell backwards. He crashed into the wall and started laughing, a giggling sound that he just couldn't stop and didn't really want to. Gary frowned and walked around the table, giving the Joker plenty of time to get up, if he wanted to. Instead, he just leaned against the wall and continued giggling, looking directly at Gary as the kid came closer. Gary walked right up to him and kicked him in the stomach, and the Joker doubled over in pain, laughing even harder.

"You like that, you sick freak?" Gary asked, and the Joker didn't bother to answer because the gym teacher showed up then, and he was menacing enough that Gary went willingly to the vice principal's office.

The Joker went home that night and ignored everything. He concentrated on re-playing the feeling of Gary's fist on his face and foot in his stomach over and over again, letting his eyes flutter closed. When he came, it was with some surprise but also a sense of clarity. He felt relieved. A nameless weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and at least now he knew why he was never interested in any girls. He couldn't imagine a girl's touch could be that brutal. It had been hard, punishing, and ruthless. It had been exactly what he wanted.

The next day, the Joker was called into the guidance counselor's office. She sat him down and began by telling him that he was an outstanding student, top of his class, so brilliant he could go anywhere he wanted—as long as he kept it up. He nodded absently, thinking about how he could get Gary to start beating him up again. The Joker began laughing, giggling wildly over the implicit double meaning there.

"Are you all right?" the guidance counselor asked, obviously taken aback.

"Fine," he replied, speaking quickly and in a monotone.

"Well, I called you here because, even with all of your attributes, there are some problems that the school feels obligated to address before you graduate." It was clearly a sentence she had either rehearsed or said countless times, so the Joker simply nodded and kept nodding as she continued speaking, giggling occasionally. "Many students, and some of the staff, feel that your…" She paused, searched for the right word, and then continued. " _Behavior_ is hard to deal with."

"Mmmm," the Joker said, drawing it out low and guttural. The guidance counselor shifted uneasily in her chair.

She cleared her throat. "There's also the matter of your name. There's no reason why you should only answer to a nickname that you've given yourself. There is absolutely nothing wrong with—"

"Don't say it," the Joker interrupted, practically biting the words out. "It makes me…" He paused and then drew the last word out for much too long, "… anxious."

The guidance counselor took a deep breath and then said, "You do realize that people are going to refer to you by your given name, at some point."

The Joker shook his head, pressing his lips together. "Nope, no they _won't_ ," he replied. "I'm the Joker. They can call me tha-tuh." He nodded, as if that was the end of that discussion.

Apparently the guidance counselor agreed, or at least wasn't willing to go any further into that line of argument, because she changed the subject. "The last thing we need to discuss has just recently come to my attention. Yesterday, in fact." She took a breath. "Mr. Stulman claims that you didn't fight back when he hit you, and in fact that you might have enjoyed it." She eyed him critically. "Did you enjoy Mr. Stulman hitting you?"

The Joker, for all his faults, was not an idiot. He knew when he was being set up, and he had known how to play the game for years.

"Of course not," he said, sounding shocked. "That would be _crazy_ ," he added in a conspiratorial whisper.

The guidance counselor stared at him, hard, and he smiled back, blinking slowly at her. She let him go because they both knew she couldn't do anything else. After all, making people uncomfortable wasn't a crime, and he wasn't doing anything against school policy. People parted in the hallway to let him pass, and he specifically walked in an unpredictable zig-zagging pattern. He caught brief images of their terrified faces as he passed, giggling to himself all the while.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Most of the time Bruce felt like he was living a double life. One the one hand, he was a playboy with too much time and money on his hands. But there were times that he felt a darker urge, a tugging in his gut that he didn't know how to relieve. It was as though a part of him wasn't satisfied with his life, and that part was growing—becoming stronger and larger every day. He had never been all that happy with the way his life had turned out, but whatever discontent he had felt in the past had been easily masked by fucking another woman, or spending all night at a club, or buying a hotel and turning it into a resort. All of his pastimes, varied and questionable as they were, did nothing anymore to stop the scraping ache inside him.

He was throwing a party, one of the huge expensive ones that he put on every few weeks. Everyone who was anyone was there, including people Bruce had never seen before and suspected had got in by either escorting another guest or just sneaking in. It didn't really matter—the more people who were there, the better it made Bruce look. Everyone was drinking and dancing and talking, schmoozing up to him and each other in that special, distinctive way that only the rich could pull off.

Everyone around him started laughing at the end of a joke he was supposed to be listening to, so he started as well. As his eyes continued to scan the room, though, he noticed one man in particular. This man didn't appear out of the ordinary in any way, except that he was standing around the appetizer table, discreetly stuffing himself on the hors d'oeuvres.

"Excuse me," Bruce said with a smile. He left the small crowd of people and strode towards the single man, feeling confident and powerful. He might have been willing to overlook a few crashers, but anyone who stood out that clearly was going to have to be dealt with.

"I'm sorry, I don't recognize you," Bruce said as he approached the man.

The man, who was shorter than Bruce and had plain, easily forgettable features, stiffened and then nodded. "I came with someone," he said. A piece of something stuck in his teeth, and he tongued it out before smiling at Bruce. "It's great to meet you."

"Thanks. Who?"

"What?"

Bruce crossed his arms over his chest. "Who did you come with?"

The man swallowed and waved towards a large group of people. "I think she's somewhere over there."

"Oh, really?" he asked, nodding as though he believed every word this guy was saying. "Why don't you call her over?" The man opened his mouth to reply, and then shut it. "Listen," Bruce continued, quickly. "I don't really feel like making a scene here. So, why don't I escort you out, okay?"

The man looked momentarily frightened but then confused. "I thought you had guards or whatever to do that sort of thing."

Bruce stared at the man. "Do I _need_ to call someone?" He paused for dramatic tension. "Or are you going to come willingly?"

The man scratched his chin and then nodded. "Yeah, sure, I'm coming."

Bruce walked out of the room and down the stairs, checking over his shoulder once every few feet to make sure the man wasn't making a run for it. But no, he was simply following along behind Bruce, clearly thinking that he was going to get away with coming into Wayne Manor uninvited. The thought made Bruce seethe, instantly setting him on edge. Who was this man, to think he could crash a party and then not even bother to try to fit in? He clearly was taking Bruce too lightly.

Instead of following the stairs to the normal entrance, Bruce led the man down a side hallway, which ended in a door that only the gardener used. He opened the door, waited until the man followed him outside, and then shut it behind them.

"I'm sorry about this," the man said, grinning. "But you know, big party, and I just had to—"

Bruce punched the man directly in the face, cracking his knuckles on the man's nose. The man screamed and clutched his nose, eyes wide and pupils dilated. He took his hand quickly away from his nose, saw blood covering his fingers, and immediately pressed his hand back to try and stop the bleeding.

"What the fuck are you _doing_?" he asked.

Bruce tightened his jaw and slammed his fist into the guy's stomach. The man doubled over and then fell to the ground, coughing. Blood was still seeping through his fingers, and the sight made Bruce's blood boil, made his heart start pounding. The man was just lying there, unable to move or do anything other than moan, and Bruce kicked him—once, hard, in the stomach. The man started begging for him to stop, but the words were mumbled and Bruce could pretend he couldn't hear him.

Kneeling down next to the man, Bruce was able to see the extent of the damage he'd done. This man was obviously in pain, and Bruce only felt as though he should be concerned. It didn't even bother him that he wasn't; he only thought that the average person would probably want to get him help.

Bruce grabbed the man's hair and slammed his head against the ground, knocking the man out. He wanted to do more, a lot more, but the knowledge that the man wouldn't be aware of it stopped him. Bruce didn't understand why it was important that the man was aware of what he was going through, but it was, and continuing now just seemed pointless and gratuitous.

"Master Wayne."

Bruce spun around, saw Alfred standing there, and quickly got to his feet. "Alfred," he said, shortly. "What are you doing here?"

Alfred looked briefly down at the man on the ground and then back up at Bruce. "I see you've found the pickpocket."

"What?" Bruce asked, clearly confused.

Alfred raised his eyebrows. "This man had been stealing from our guests, sir. I assume that was why you brought him out here." Alfred paused meaningfully. "Wasn't it?"

"Of course," Bruce said, quickly. He nodded and knelt down to search through the man's pockets, finding wallets and jewelry that would have totaled a large sum if he had gotten away with it. "Here," he said, handing what he found to Alfred. "Have our guests check themselves for any missing items, and return these to their proper owners."

"Right away, Master Wayne," Alfred said. He walked back inside without another word.

Later, it was easy for Bruce to think that he must have known, instinctively, that the man had been stealing. Otherwise, there had been no reason to beat him up. And if he hadn't had a reason for doing it, what did that say about him? After thinking about it for hours and hours, Bruce finally realized that he must have seen something that had given the man away and then forgotten about it. The incident was never brought up again, and later, when Bruce became Batman, it didn't surprise Alfred at all to learn that Bruce had found a way to beat people up in the name of justice.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The vast majority of people were either immediately terrified of the Joker or else tried to ignore him the best they could. Neither of those responses suited the Joker too well. He wasn't thrilled when people were terrified of him, although it was kind of funny, and people ignoring him just pissed him off. Either way meant they weren't listening to what he had to say, and he certainly wanted people to listen to him. He had a lot to say, and he knew too many people just weren't going to listen to him unless he forced himself to be heard.

This was the basis for deciding to go into a life of crime. There were a few other factors, such as the fact that no one was willing to hire him for any job, even the shittiest ones. Overall, though, the Joker knew that he was meant for big things in life. He was meant to show people the way they truly were. He was meant to let people know that, underneath all of their football games and minivans and barbeques, everyone was exactly like him. They were all just hiding it, just pretending to fit in. Sure, everyone believed in the lies they lived, but the Joker knew the truth. Put people in the right situation and their true selves would show up. After that, they could never again think that they were just normal, that they weren't capable of doing horrible things.

The Joker knew, on his very first attempt at real criminality, that this was the right choice for him. He usually preferred knives because they made people more aware of him, made him unforgettable. It was hard to ignore a dagger shoved in your mouth, he knew from experience. Also, they had a more intimate feeling to them. He felt as though he was really able to get his message across to people if he had a knife, as opposed to the completely unemotional gun.

However, for this first big moment, he had decided to start out with something more dramatic—something really over the top and explosive, so to speak. So, he rigged up an elementary school to explode. It was easy to do—one night, he dressed up as a custodian and was finished in about an hour. No one questioned him—not the teachers who stayed late or the other janitors, and he realized again just how mindless people could be. These men and women worked together for who knew how long, and yet someone new shows up and starts carting barrels into the basement, and no one says a word about it. Were they all just _that_ self-absorbed? Did they all hate their lives so much that they didn't care about anything threatening that came their way?

It didn't much matter. By tomorrow, the Joker knew everyone in the place would have a whole new outlook on life.

When the day arrived, bright and shining, the Joker waited until ten a.m. and then detonated the bombs. There hadn't been all that many bombs inside—just enough to surround the walls of the basement—and so he wasn't too surprised when he only saw a bit of fire and a whole lot of smoke. Then, people started running out, crying and screaming—children and adults alike. Even the people who weren't in the building but had seen the explosion started panicking. People were bleeding, reaching out to hold on to each other, and the entire scene was a picture of chaos.

The Joker eventually left, just before the cops and fire trucks arrived, along with a plethora of ambulances. When he got back to his motel room, the television was full of coverage of his attack. He eagerly perched on the edge of his bed and turned the volume up, listening to the reports.

But as he listened, his giggling stopped and the wide smile fell off his face. Everyone was simply commenting on what a tragedy it was, on how only a madman would have done something so cruel, on how the perpetrator needed to be put away. No one had any epiphanies, no one understood what the point of it all had been—to show that you should keep things that are precious to you close by, to understand that the government couldn't keep anyone safe, to get people to realize that they were willing to do anything to get revenge. No one was even mentioning any of that. Everything was all just adding to the lie.

The Joker turned off the television with a snarl. This had failed miserably. He had planned it out wrong somewhere along the line, and now no one would gain any knowledge from his actions. He needed to figure out how to get people to _understand_.

It took him hours. He was up for most of the night, pacing and then lying on the floor and then jumping on the bed. How to get people to understand what he wanted to tell them? Obviously, he couldn't just do something dramatic. There needed to be some kind of set-up for it. He needed people to understand what he was going to do ahead of time, so that when he actually did it, they would finally grasp what he meant to say. The only way to do that would be to tell them exactly what he wanted them to learn, but that wouldn't work, since people never listened when he spoke. The only thing left to do was to trick them into listening to him, even if they didn't want to. If he could _force_ them to listen to him, then he could get somewhere.

Then it came to him. He was the Joker, wasn't he? Why not set up games that the people had to play? Something along the lines of choose this or that, or else do this before this time or this happens. The only problem with that was that people still might not understand his point. They still might just go along with what they were "supposed" to do, and never realize what he had been trying to say. But if he mixed things up a little, they might get it. He'd need to work on the idea a little, test it to see what really worked and what just ended with people still blindly walking forward with their hands over their eyes, but the Joker figured he had a pretty good plan. Especially if he could somehow switch the outcome to be what people weren't expecting—then they would understand. If people were sure of the "right choice" and picked that one, but it ended up secretly being the opposite of what they wanted to happen, then they would think harder about what they had done. They would think harder about how they lived their lives and about how every choice they made had consequences that they didn't expect.

He was fairly pleased with himself when he went to sleep. He was less pleased when the police broke down his door and arrested him a half hour later. They brought him to the station and claimed they had solid evidence that linked him to the terrorist bombing, as they called it. It was then that the Joker realized that he needed to do something to make himself untraceable. He needed to be able to disappear when necessary. Otherwise, people would try to stop him. People would do anything to keep on living in their little dream worlds.

"Are you listening to me, pal?" the officer said during questioning.

"No," the Joker replied, staring blankly at him.

"If you don't cooperate with us, you're going to get a life sentence. You'll be behind bars for the rest of your life!" The officer sneered at him. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"Oh, nono, I be _lieve_ you," the Joker said, nodding and closing his eyes.

"You think you're going to get away scot-free, don't you?"

"I'm cer _tain_ you've go-tuh something _nasty_ planned for me," the Joker said, opening his eyes and grinning wildly at the police officer.

The officer made more promises that he wouldn't keep, and then they locked the Joker in a cell. After he escaped, and it had been so easy to escape, just a bit of sweet talking and threatening and he had the keys, he knew he had to make himself invisible.

So, he went to a local drug store, bought a nail file and a lighter, and then checked in to another motel in a different town. Of course, it annoyed him that he couldn't go back to get his things, but hey, he was becoming invisible. Invisible men didn't carry around a lot of extra stuff. It took him about two hours to file his teeth down a bit, just enough that any dental records anyone had for him wouldn't be a match. After that, he spent most of that night burning off his fingerprints, moving slowly thanks to the obvious necessity of doing it very carefully and over the sink.

In the morning, his fingers were sore and his mouth ached, and he felt like it was a new beginning.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

It was easy to go out at night and hunt down criminals. In fact, it was so easy that Bruce wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. These were people who were asking for it. They specifically spat in the face of good, hard-working citizens, and they thought they could get away with it. They thought they could do whatever they wanted to, just to line their pockets with money. They were in need of a serious lesson, and Bruce knew he was the one to give it to them. True, the police called him a vigilante, but that was because they were just jealous. He was doing their job better than they ever had.

Being Batman felt like it was his calling in life. It had consequences—some of which were severe—but overall, donning that outfit and doling out justice made him feel comfortable. Bruce felt secure. He knew what he was doing was right, he knew that it needed to be done, and he knew that he was the only person qualified to do it. He had the training and bravery that no one else had, as well as the personal experience that allowed him to have no doubts about his actions.

So when Rachel said that she would be with him once he gave up being Batman, he didn't know what to think. Sure, a part of him had always wanted to be with Rachel. She offered him a life that he had always wanted—a life that was simple and enjoyable. They could be together in a way that he could never have with anyone else. They had known each other since they were kids, and they understood each other in a way that allowed Bruce to relax. He was pretty sure he didn't understand everything about Rachel, and he knew there were large parts of him that she either didn't see or just chose to ignore, but overall they fit together well enough. She was certainly miles ahead of every other girl he had dated over the years, and that meant a lot considering the sheer number of girls he had… sampled.

Bruce was also at a point where he figured there was no perfect relationship. There was no one waiting for him, somewhere outside Gotham, who would fit with him in every way. There would always be differences, or things people just couldn't agree on, and compromise was how relationships worked. That was what everyone said, and it made a hell of a lot of sense to him. So, Rachel starting off their relationship with such a large compromise shouldn't have been so startling.

But it was.

Give up being Batman? Bruce would sooner give up all his money than stop defending the streets of Gotham from the criminals that plagued them. Batman was the only thing that kept him going most days. The knowledge that he could go out and make a difference, get people to see that there was hope left, was so important to him that Rachel's request seemed impossible.

He knew he was taking a while in answering her, and that was why, when she wanted to talk to him, he was so nervous meeting her that he almost declined. But they had known each other too long to pull something like that. Rachel showed up, right on time, and that was how Bruce knew she had something important to say.

"Listen, Bruce," Rachel said, hesitating. "I know you think you're doing what's right for Gotham, and I respect that. I really do."

"But?" Bruce asked, beginning to smile. Rachel was so predictable—he could have made her gestures as she did them. It was familiar and comforting, if a little boring at times.

" _But_ ," Rachel said, smiling despite herself. "You know I don't agree with you." Bruce opened his mouth and Rachel said, "And before you interrupt, no, that's not what I came here to say."

"Okay," Bruce said, face solemn. "What did you come here to say?"

"I've met someone," Rachel said, and she frowned at the words. "That sounds wrong. I mean, I wanted to let you know that I'm in a relationship."

Bruce swallowed and felt himself stand up straighter. "I thought you said—"

"I did," Rachel interrupted. "But the man I'm seeing, he's really great, and he agrees with me. That justice needs to be given out by the judicial system, I mean." Rachel walked forward and put her hand on Bruce's arm. "I'm sorry, Bruce," she said, quietly. "But I've been waiting and now I'm not going to let this opportunity slip by."

"What's his name?" Bruce asked, voice monotone.

"Harvey. Harvey Dent." Rachel smiled a little when she said it, and Bruce knew she was already in love with him.

"The new DA?" Bruce asked. His eyebrows rose a fraction. "Not going to report me, are you?"

"Bruce," Rachel said, exasperated. "Don't be like that."

"Like what?" Bruce asked, mockingly wounded.

Rachel sighed and then squeezed Bruce's arm. "So, we're okay?"

Bruce looked at her. It was impossible to miss the light in her eyes, the way a smile was always on the edge of her mouth waiting to materialize, the way she seemed more energetic and full of expectations for her future that had never been there before.

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "We're okay."

Rachel grinned and then let her hand drop. She left shortly afterwards, no doubt to go put someone else behind bars, and Bruce walked mechanically to his workout room. He jabbed and kicked at the punching bag for the better part of an hour, and when that wasn't enough, he went to a bedroom that had been untouched for years and upturned the dresser, tore the sheets, cracked the windows.

The police the next morning were all surprised at the condition of the criminals Batman caught the night before, compared to normal. They all assumed the criminals must have been spectacularly idiotic or foolhardy to fight against Batman when everyone knew no criminal had ever won against him. Why else, expect utter stupidity, would they be so inclined to continue a fight when they all were in need of immediate and serious medical attention?

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The Joker had very specific hobbies that made people… nervous. He liked playing with knives. He liked blowing things up. Possibly worst of all, he liked wearing _make-up_. These were things that most people just weren't able to understand. This normally wasn't a problem, except for one area of life that was really quite unavoidable.

He was so fucking horny he could have stabbed himself through the eye and he wouldn't even have felt the pain. Well, he would have _enjoyed_ it, but it wouldn't have been enough. And that was the entire problem.

It wasn't that the Joker was looking to just get off with someone. If he wanted that, he could have just abducted anyone who looked good and raped them. The real issue was that he wanted someone who completed him. He wanted someone who was able to look at him and see him for who he was. Yes, he was a freak. That was the name society had for people who didn't fit in, who didn't prescribe to the average social order, and he had no problem with that. He wasn't thrilled when someone called him a freak, but it was better than the other term people used. After all, he wasn't crazy, he had never _been_ crazy, and the constant exclamations of "You're crazy!" were really starting to piss him the hell off. He didn't know why everyone immediately made that assumption—there was no basis for it at all.

At any rate, he wasn't crazy, and he didn't need to be with someone who thought that. Nor did he need someone who wasn't into S&M because he certainly enjoyed both sides of _that_ game. He preferred to get beaten up, but really, who could resist a good throw down? And this person, preferably a guy but at this point he'd go either way, also needed to be able to deal with his hobbies. He certainly didn't need a lecture every time he wanted to blow something up or put on some make-up. And another thing: this person had to not fit in to the standards society had set. This person needed to understand that people weren't who they appeared to be, and that there was a whole huge underworld going on right below the surface that everyone simply ignored because it was easier and nicer to pretend it wasn't there.

So far, the Joker's total count of people who matched this description was a whopping zero. You'd think, in the whole world, there would be at least a few people that agreed with all of this, but so far, nothing. It was beginning to depress him, in the way that most things were unable to do. Was everyone just going along blindly with what they were supposed to be doing? Wasn't there anyone who was trying to make a statement about something, _anything_?

Then, one morning the Joker opened his newspaper and flipped through it, and a small article stuck in-between a historic property being tore down and a dog saving his owner's life stood out. The title, "VIGILANTE FIGHTS CRIME", left a lot to be desired, but the article didn't disappoint. In Gotham City, there was a man dressing up in black leather and a cape and going out at night, pummeling criminals and leaving them for the cops to arrest.

The Joker read the article three times through before he fell on the ground from laughing so hard. This man, this vigilante, seemed so interesting! Here was someone who was going out and doing something, who was trying to show the world what he thought of it. And he was doing it by dressing up as a bat and assaulting people!

This was too good to be true. There _had_ to be a catch. But as time passed and more news came in about the Batman, the Joker realized he was for real. This man, whoever he was, actually might be worth checking out. He might turn out to be nobody, or a poser, and it really was best not to get his hopes up.

"This won't be _any_ thing-uh," the Joker muttered to himself, pouring sugar in his coffee. "The Batman," he slid the word out, letting it move slowly over his tongue, "isn't interesting a-tuh _all_."

The next day he was headed for Gotham.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

When Batman visited Arkham Asylum, it was the middle of the night and almost everyone was asleep. The Joker, locked in his maximum security cell, was sitting up, staring at Batman the second he arrived.

"Hi," the Joker said, grinning widely. "I _thought_ you'd come."

The Batman said nothing, only stood there and stared at the Joker. The Joker licked the inside of his mouth, running his tongue along his teeth, and blinked at the Batman.

"Did you come _here_ just to see meee?" The Joker began giggling, high-pitched and frantic. "I'm so touche-duh."

The silence fell again, and this time the Joker didn't break it. The Batman stood there, staring at him, and the Joker stared back, blinking occasionally. The Joker found himself wondering, as he often did, what the Batman really looked like. The Batman found himself wondering, as he often did, what was going on in the Joker's head.

Not that it really mattered, to either of them. Still, it would've been nice to know.

"When you get out, come find me," the Batman said. It was said with finality, as if there was no question of the Joker's escape. The Joker enjoyed knowing that the Batman, at least, was not underestimating him.

"Oh, I _will_ ," the Joker replied. "You don't have to worry about _that_ , _Bat_." He spoke quickly, lightly, over-enunciating some consonants and skipping a few vowels, but the Batman wasn't fazed by his method of speaking, just like he wasn't fazed by anything the Joker did.

"I'm looking forward to beating you into unconsciousness," the Batman said.

"Oh, me too," the Joker purred.

The Batman left in a hurry. He felt energized that night, although not as much as when he had been facing down the Joker, but he still found himself working the thugs over a little too much. When he got home, he laid down on his bed, closed his eyes, and imagined the Joker's smiling, bloody face underneath him.

The Joker laid awake for most of the night, re-playing the scene in his head. When he finally allowed himself to fall asleep, it was dawn. The Batman never came out in the daylight.

 

_fin._


End file.
